


The Fear in Her Smile

by Slynnski



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-11-29 23:14:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11451078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slynnski/pseuds/Slynnski
Summary: The story of how Ramsay and Myranda met and how their relationship evolved over time.





	1. The Bastard of the Dreadfort

Myranda Hale had always lived at the Dreadfort. 

Her father served Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, by looking after and taking care of his prized hunting dogs. 

Myranda wasn't allowed near them. In fact, Myranda wasn't allowed to do many things.

She was the only daughter and child of her father, Farris Hale. Her mother died when she was very small, around five years of age. Ever since, her father had become quite isolated and cold, being over-protective of Myranda but also not caring for her as a father should, either. 

She wasn't allowed out of their keep most days, and she wasn't allowed the company of other children. She was especially forbidden to talk to the bastard boy of the Dreadfort.

But Myranda didn't let any of her father's rules stop her; she did things her own way. Sure, she sewed and cooked and cleaned for her father as any dutiful low-born daughter should. But she also disobeyed her father in almost every other fashion. 

She escaped their keep most days and fled the walls of the Dreadfort out into the mountains and forests surrounding it. She felt free within nature; the trees her castles, the grasses and moss her blankets, and the rabbits, ravens, and fish her friends. The flowers were her paintings, the mud, twigs and leaves her playthings, and the streams her wash basins. She never felt alone or wanted for anything. 

Over time as she grew, Myranda made herself a crude bow and arrow and taught herself to hunt. She was not very good at it, but she usually managed to catch a rabbit each day. She would return home to her father well before sunset, her dress muddy and leaves tangled in her soft brown hair. Although Farris could not deny the fresh meat that she often brought home, he was still furious with her and did not hesitate to lay his hands on her.

But Myranda wore the bruises proudly like battle scars. They made her tougher, increasingly fearless, and soon she became as stone-hearted as her father.

Or so she liked to think.

Although Myranda did not play with the other children of the Dreadfort, she often heard their whispers. And they frequently whispered about the bastard boy, Lord Bolton's illegitimate son. 

The story went that he was a product of rape. Lord Bolton wanted nothing to do with the child he unknowingly sired, but he took him in to keep his wench of a mother silent and to raise as his own. 

The Boltons were known for their coldness and occasional cruelty, and the servants and low-borns of the Dreadfort avoided them as much as they could. The bastard boy was no different. From an early age he inspired fear in his fellow children and wariness in the adults. People gave him a wider birth than they did his father. Any child who got in the bastard boy's way was chased, tortured, mocked, bullied, scorned and a host of other nasty things. He sneered at the adults and paid them no respect. Most were too afraid to go to Lord Bolton with their concerns, and those who did were threateningly silenced. Lord Bolton tried to discipline his bastard as well as he could, but the boy was out of his control, though he didn't like to admit it. 

Instead of being afraid like everyone else, Myranda was intrigued by this boy. How bad could he be? _Surely no one could be more cruel than my father,_ she naively thought. 

She watched him as often as she could. He never noticed her; most people didn't. She dared herself that one day she would approach him instead of admiring from afar. She had no clue on how she would do it. 

But what Myranda didn't know was that an opportunity would soon present itself before her; an opportunity so palpable that it would be as if it fell into her very lap. An opportunity that would change her sheltered life forever. 


	2. Twelfth Name Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay celebrates his name day by going on a hunt with Roose.

Ramsay Snow felt a warm, soft tongue caress his face and a cold, wet nose sniff his ear, sending chills down his spine. He slowly opened his eyes, the morning light washing over him. A bright-eyed puppy stared down at him, its small paws on Ramsay’s chest and its tail wagging furiously.

"Happy name day, son," came the commandeering voice of Roose Bolton at the end of Ramsay's massive bedstead.

"Thank you, father," Ramsay said softly, not quite meeting Roose's eyes. The truth was, Lord Bolton always made Ramsay feel slightly uneasy and a bit intimidated. He knew his father looked down on him because of his bastard status, and it made Ramsay cringe inside. However, although Roose and Ramsay did not have a very close relationship, Roose at least acknowledged Ramsay's name day every year.

He had never, though, received such a fine gift as the furry puppy before him.

Roose's voice interrupted Ramsay's thoughts. "Maester Walken will be bringing your breakfast. Then hurry up and get dressed and come find me at once. We are going hunting today."

Ramsay's ears perked up at the last bit. Hunting with father? Another welcome surprise. Roose never let Ramsay accompany him on his hunting trips. That was the duty of his guard and his young squire, whom he usually treated more like a son than he ever did Ramsay.

Roose then swiftly left the room without another word.

Ramsay sat up in bed, thinking things over in silence. The puppy rolled over onto her back, clearly wanting her belly rubbed. Ramsay was surprised to notice that not only was she quite small for a pup of her breed, but that she was also a female. "The runt of the litter," he muttered in contempt, although he couldn't help but smile as he dutifully scratched her warm belly. She sighed and closed her eyes in contentment.

After a breakfast of Ramsay's favorite pork sausage and stowing his new pup in the kennels with the others, he and Roose set out for the hunt, leaving the Dreadfort behind them for the day. Roose's squire Emory followed silently behind them, towing the empty wooden sled for any prey the two might bring down.

Although Ramsay was never allowed to hunt with Roose and his men, his father still had a fine bow and sheath of arrows made for him. He had practiced archery with one of the best archers at the Dreadfort since he was 3, and he had gone hunting numerous times on his own with some of Roose's bannermen. Bastard he may be, no son of Roose Bolton's would grow up not knowing how to hunt or maneuver a bow and arrow. So for a boy of now twelve, Ramsay was quite talented at using the weapon and far more skilled than most other boys his age.

Most of their day out was spent in silence between father and son. They each managed to snag a deer; Roose a fine buck and Ramsay a sizeable doe, of which Roose was quite proud. Throughout the day they munched on apples and other fruit, but as the sun started to hang low in the sky, they shot a couple of rabbits and set up a small makeshift camp to eat.

After the rabbits were cooked through and the two had begun to eat, Roose broke the quiet.

"I don't spend enough time with you."

Ramsay continued to chew in silence and stared into the fire; he wasn't sure how to answer that.

"Have you found a name for your pup, yet?" Roose questioned.

"No," Ramsay mumbled shortly.

"She's one of Jacinta's you know," said Roose.

Jacinta was Roose's best hound.

"Why did you give her to me?" Ramsay wondered aloud.

Roose frowned slightly before answering.

"I have heard stories about what you get up to when your lessons are finished. I'm not sure where this savage behavior comes from, and I don't approve. I was hoping that raising and training a hound of your own would provide ample distraction from such activities."

"I'm the son of a Lord; I can do what I want," Ramsay said defiantly without meeting his father's gaze.

"You are a bastard," Roose began roughly. "You shall earn none of my wealth, land or titles. I could easily have you take the black and live out your days at the Wall, or send you to live in Fleabottom in King's Landing with the other whores and gutter rats. And I just might, if you keep up these atrocities."

Ramsay's cheeks stung with shame and indignation. He recognized his father's threat, but he would not allow himself to be scared. Ramsay swallowed his pride before he answered.

"Thank you, Father, for your time today, and your wonderful gift. I shall take good care of her and make you proud."

He turned to Roose and smiled sweetly, but his blue eyes were as cold as ice as he stared Roose down.

That night, Ramsay couldn't sleep. Roose's cruel words kept running through his mind. His hands twitched and he wanted to throw something, but he forced himself to be quiet.

Ramsay silently got out of bed, slipped on a pair of breeches, and snuck out of his bedroom. He grabbed a torch from one of the stone walls and ran out into the night. Ramsay hurried his way to the kennels where the hounds slept, the light of the torch burning his eyes in the blackness. But as he reached the top of the tower where the kennels stood, he slowed his pace when he noticed a faint light already burning. He hadn't expected to find anyone up here at this hour.

Ramsay was shocked to find a small girl crouched in the corner, a lantern at her feet. She was whispering to Jacinta and feeding her dinner scraps. The girl was completely unaware that Ramsay had entered the room. An evil grin crept onto Ramsay's face, and he took a loud step forward to announce his presence.


End file.
